Hey, Roomie
by SolarRose29
Summary: Because Clint thinks Steve's apartment doubles as a hospital.
1. Chapter 1

**Again, just a little snippet from the closet to prove that I still exist. Updates on new stories are works in progress, which are currently on hold until I figure out a way to make my bills pay themselves. :P  
**

* * *

With a small grin still lighting his face from his chance meeting with Sharon on the stairwell, Steve keyed open his apartment and stopped short in the doorway. Staged laughter crashed into him. A second later, the obnoxious commotion was repeated. He stiffened. The noise could only be coming from his television set, the one that SHIELD left for him when they assigned him the room, the one he didn't need and didn't want but kept in his living room anyway. He hardly knew how to turn the new-fangled contraption on, let alone how to program it to receive stilted comedies from the Eighties. Never before having had an intruder in his house, Steve was unsure whether it was common practice for the burglar to sit down for reruns of cheap sitcoms or not.

Carefully, he closed the door behind him without a sound. Slipping down the hallway, keeping his back to the wall, he made his way further into the apartment. The shelves SHIELD had filled with decorative bowls allowed him to peer around the corner. Without taking his eyes off the flickering shadows cast on the cream-colored walls by the light from the T.V. screen, he bent and retrieved his shield from where it leaned against the woodwork.

Avoiding the boards that would creak beneath his weight, he sneaked up on the couch and the inhabitant he could just see the outline of lounging upon it. His shield held in his right hand, arm near chest level in a defensive position, he advanced and was about to demand the mysterious prowler identify themselves, when they did so without his urging.

"Come on, just tell her you love her!" the figure on the sofa shouted, leaning forward enthusiastically, as if the fictional characters from a thirty-year old recorded show could hear him.

Lowering his weapon, Steve sighed and flipped on the light switch. A surprised groan left the other person as they threw an arm over their face to block out the unexpected brightness.

"Ow." A muttered exclamation.

"What are you doing here, Barton?" Steve questioned as he set his shield on the floor. "I thought you were in New York."

"I got bored," Clint shrugged, shutting off the T.V. with the touch of a button.

"So you decided to travel the two hundred miles from there to here?" Steve inquired skeptically, coming over to stand in front of his uninvited house guest.

"Hey, when Tony Stark lets you borrow his private jet, you don't say no to a little vacation," Clint explained, reaching toward the coffee table for the bottle of beer he'd purchased from a diner down the street and taking a swig.

"And by 'borrowing' you mean…?" Steve raised an eyebrow.

Clint paused mid-swallow and looked up at the suspicious captain. He gulped down his mouthful quickly. "Well, he might not know it's missing yet. But he obviously wasn't using it so it's completely okay for me to have it," he excused himself.

Steve shook his head, snorting. "You don't change, do you, Barton?"

Lips curling into a smirk, Clint stretched back into the couch cushions, bringing his arms up behind his head. "What can I say? I make routine look good."

"Why are you really here?" Steve inquired quietly, seeing right through the other man's casual attitude.

Smile fading, Clint bowed his head a moment before looking back up at Steve. "I never could get anything past you." He rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "It wasn't my idea to come here." At Steve's unspoken question, Clint tugged up his the leg of his pants to expose a bulky cast.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath. "What happened?"

"Long story short, my calf and the grill of a pickup don't mix." Clint regarded his injury nonchalantly.

"Does it hurt?" Steve knelt and inspected it more closely.

Tossing a hand at the blond head by his knee, Clint responded, "Nah, it's fine."

Steve frowned but didn't press the issue further. Rising, he started for the kitchen to fix refreshments for his visitor. "You still haven't told me why you're here," he reminded.

"Oh, right." Clint shifted into a more comfortable position. "It was either this or the hospital for three weeks."

Nearly stumbling in surprise, Steve whirled around. "You're planning on being here for three weeks?!"

"Is that a problem?" Clint aimed the inquiry over his shoulder while scanning the television remote for the button he wanted.

"Well, no, but…I-no, I guess not," Steve spluttered a protest before changing his answer to agreement. "Did you bring any spare clothes?"

"No."

"A sleeping bag?"

"Uh-uh."

"Toothbrush?"

"Nope."

Steve threw his hands in the air. "How is this going to work?"

"I dunno," Clint twisted around, folding his forearms over the back of the couch and resting his chin on them. "You're the Man With The Plan. I was hoping you would figure something out." He smiled innocently.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve blew out a breath. "Okay, I'm going to make some popcorn and then I'll think of something."

"Yeah!" Clint cheered. "This is gonna be the best three weeks of my life!"

A cell phone shrieked out a pounding ring tone and Clint lazily dug it out of his pocket, reading the caller ID. "Oops. It's Stark. I guess he noticed the missing jet."

Steve rolled his eyes and headed off to prepare the snack, wondering how he was going to survive three weeks with the unusual archer.


	2. Chapter 2

At the beginning, it was great. There was nothing Clint enjoyed more than surprising the usually unflappable super solider. The look on Steve's face when he discovered the archer on his couch was one that Clint would treasure for years to come. The first couple of days passed by in a haze of strong painkillers and lame television that Clint may or may not have been stealing from Steve's neighbor's cable connection. But seeing as how SHIELD was paying for the cable anyway, (yes, Clint knew about Agent 13. He'd had an unfortunate encounter with her while he was clumsily picking Steve's lock, crutches under his arm and a cast on his leg. While Clint could never resist a conversation with a pretty woman, he preferred talking to her face, not the barrel of her gun,) he figured it was okay to siphon off a bit of satellite coverage so that he could melt his drugged brain with stupid reality T.V. When he wasn't dozing on the captain's sofa, that is. With several prescriptions keeping the pain to a minimum and Steve waiting on him hand and foot, Clint realized he should have broken his leg a lot sooner. This was the best vacation he had had since…well, he couldn't remember ever taking a vacation, so this was a new, yet welcome, experience.

The start of the second week rolled around and Clint's good mood was rapidly deteriorating. His supply of magic pills had run out and his leg was now hurting in earnest. The television was only replaying the same show on a loop and Clint could rehearse every episode in his sleep by this point. Sore and bored, Clint would grab his crutches and hobble around the entire apartment, searching for something to take his mind off the pain and his lack of field work. Sadly, beside the SHIELD provided décor, the whole place was practically empty. No pictures, no souvenirs, no collectables, no figurines. There was nothing to distinguish this apartment from any other unoccupied space in the building. Clint was going to have to show the solider the right way to pimp out his living quarters. Since Steve hadn't yet seen Clint's bunk on the helicarrier, it was no wonder the guy had no idea what a properly personalized apartment looked like.

In the whole square footage rented out to the super hero, there was only one thing that claimed it as belonging to the captain. Stumbling upon it on a drizzly Tuesday morning, Clint had been amazed to discover the sketchbook. He hadn't had a clue that Steve could draw. But the evidence was undeniable. Page after page was filled with charcoal renderings of people and places in Steve's life. Many pages were devoted to the Avengers, detailed portraits of the team, sometimes in costume, sometimes not. It wasn't until he came to an illustration done so carefully as to look just like a photograph of a woman with waves in her hair and intelligent eyes that the thought occurred to Clint that the book was private and that he shouldn't have been looking through it. Guiltily, he returned it to its proper place and backed out of the bedroom as reverently as he could on his crutches.

After that single incident of interest, things only went downhill. The pain and lack of activity made Clint irritable and the fact that Steve was mind-numbingly predictable didn't help matters. While Clint was drooling on the couch he'd insisted on sleeping on, despite Steve's arguments that the archer take the bed, the solider was already hitting the streets for his pre-dawn run. Even when he returned for a shower afterward, Clint still slumbered on. It generally took the aroma of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon to pull him from the depths of la-la land. Breakfast wasn't such a bad thing; Clint had to admit that, though a more accurate term would have been feast. Bacon, sausage, ham, omelets, toast, muffins, pancakes, doughnuts, strawberries, bananas, apples, coffee, orange juice and milk littered the table and whatever Clint didn't eat, Steve happily wolfed down. When Clint mentioned the size of the meal, Steve flushed self-consciously and explained how his breakfast had to be big, what with the lack of fuel his increased metabolism suffered during the night hours and the stimulation it experienced because of his morning runs. Even after he knew the reason behind it, it was still odd for Clint to watch Steve put away three platters of food.

As Steve would wash the dishes, the good feelings Clint acquired from the wonderful meal would slowly drain away. He knew what was coming and he didn't like it. Steve would put away the dishes, grab his jacket and keys, and head deeper into the city to report to work. SHIELD work. Work Clint wasn't allowed to do. Steve would go and walk around and run and leap and jump and kick and all the other awesome things he could do because he was Captain America and Clint would be left all alone in the bland apartment with nothing to do because he couldn't walk or run or leap or jump or kick or even dance. Why that last activity was so important, he couldn't say but he was feeling frustrated in general, so he decided to be mad about that as well.

The afternoon hours would drag by with Clint wandering the same four rooms of the apartment, or draping himself over the couch and staring at the same spot on the ceiling for the nine millionth time. Sometimes he turned on the T.V. just so he could mouth the choppy dialogue along with the mediocre actors. When he grew tired of that, he fished a pen out of the sofa cushions and scribbled moustaches on the smiling faces in the newspaper Steve got every morning. On a particularly dreary Friday, he found a pair of scissors in a drawer in the kitchen and he proceeded to create a newspaper clipping death threat. Snipping out the words he wanted and rearranging them, he laid them out on the coffee table (which had gained some new rings since he had taken up residence in the apartment.) He'd never made such a note before but he'd read about them in some crummy paperback mystery book and he'd always wanted to try it. It was fun while it lasted but soon he'd run out of scary sentences and so he blew across the tabletop, sending a flurry of paper into a whirlwind of gray moths.

Finally, dinnertime would roll around. If Clint was lucky, Steve returned from the Triskelion in time to prepare them both a huge pot of spaghetti. But sometimes, Fury kept the soldier until eleven at night, if not later. On those nights, Steve returned to the stench of burnt toast and Clint cursing beside the smoking toaster. Cracked windows and pizza boxes could always be found around the apartment the next morning. Sometimes, during dinner, Steve would attempt conversation. If Clint was in a good mood, he'd join in and they would talk for hours about guns, or the difference between Katy Perry and the Andrews Sisters, or whatever meaningless topic they could settle on. But when Clint was in a bad mood, he'd glower until Steve gave up and they'd finish their meal in silence.

When the twenty-one days ended and Clint's imprisonment was at an end, he felt he should get the captain a thank-you of some kind for putting up with such a cantankerous assassin. But they didn't make cards for that kind of thing. Clint checked. So instead, he slid a fifty dollar McDonald's gift card under Steve's door, with a sticky note inviting the soldier to crash in Clint's quarters for a whole month.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is dedicated to JenJo, who requested to see Steve staying at Clint's. Sorry it took so long to write it but here it is. Enjoy!

* * *

With a quick nod to a fellow agent, Clint headed down the Helicarrier corridor. His footsteps were muted by the clumps of mud which had gotten wedged in the boot treads during his long trek through the Louisiana swamps, chasing some random arms dealer. Deciding to clean them, he hopped on one leg, using his fingers to pick at the bottom of his raised shoe. Dislodged dirt plopped onto the deck and a passing pair of computer technicians glared at him.

"What? I'm just giving the janitor something to do," Clint shrugged. As they stepped around him, giving him a wide berth and still fixing him with disapproving scowls, he felt the need to call after them, "It's what he's paid to do!" They turned the corner, taking their haughty judgement with them. "Ah, whatever." Clint brushed a dismissive hand through the air after them.

He switched to bouncing on his other leg, using his right hand to scoop out the mud, while his left hand dug around in his pocket for his security card. Distracted as he was with clearing his boots, he didn't look up as he swiped his card through the slot at the side of the door to his quarters. So he didn't see the super soldier standing inside it until he banged his nose on the broad torso.

"Ow," Clint muttered, not because it hurt but because it seemed like the appropriate response. He absently rubbed at his nose, smearing mud on its tip.

"Sorry!" Steve hurriedly apologized. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Clint replied automatically, stepping across the threshold into his room and giving Steve a quizzical look. "How did you get in here?"

Steve sheepishly fished his security card from his pocket. "Top clearance. It opens almost any door on this ship."

Clint considered that fact for a moment. "Cool," he finally decided. "And what brings Captain America to the higher altitude?"

"Fury wanted me to speak to some of the new recruits," Steve explained, tucking away his card.

"Uh-huh," Clint hummed before raising an eyebrow. "So what's with the duffel bag?"

Steve glanced down at the luggage in his hand almost guiltily. "I'm not going to be here that long so I didn't think it was worth having a room arranged for me and you did say..." he trailed off, reaching into his leather jacket and producing a crumpled post-it note.

A chuckle rumbled in Clint's throat. "Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about that. It's been so long, I was beginning to think you were never going to take me up on that."

"I can go if you don't want me here," Steve quickly offered, taking a step toward the door.

"Wow, you really don't know how to invade someone's personal space, do you?" Clint shook his head in faux disappointment. "Even after the wonderful example I set for you."

Steve's shoe crossed the threshold and Clint held up a hand. "Whoa, whoa. Wait a second. I didn't say you could go. You can't just use your security clearance to break into my room and then hit the road."

When Steve still looked unsure, Clint compromised. "At least let me give you the tour. Then you can decide whether you want to stay or not."

Setting down his bag beside the door, Steve accepted. Clint nodded once and turned around.

"All right, we'll start with the living room-kitchen-dining room-den-study." He gestured to the area they were standing in. "Of course, you probably already saw everything while you were lurking in here before I got back."

"I was not lurking," Steve protested. "And I didn't move from the entryway, I swear. I got here just before you did."

Clint shrugged and crossed the small space, stopping in front of a mini fridge. He tugged open the door, scanning the contents. "So this is the fridge," he announced unnecessarily. "Help yourself to whatever you find in it." He pushed aside a six pack of beer, fishing out a Styrofoam take out box. "I just can't promise the quality of anything you find," he warned, setting the container on the counter and opening it to find a baked potato. He cocked an eyebrow and tilted the box so Steve could see inside it. "Take this for example. I have no idea when or where I got this," Clint informed him, humor in his voice.

Steve wrinkled his nose. Tossing the box in the garbage can, Clint reached instead for a bottle of beer. He offered one to Steve, who politely declined. After sliding into one of two chairs at the single table, Clint popped the lid off his drink, took a swig and used the bottle to point to the laptop sitting on the table. "That's what passes for a TV around here," he stated.

Nodding absently, Steve walked around the small space, noting all the little odds and ends that distinguished the archer's quarters from all the others on the Helicarrier. Chunky fridge magnets in primary colors spelling out the word 'awesome' held up a newspaper clipping of the entire Avengers team. A smile spread over Steve's face at that and it stayed there as he moved on to the counter. Near the sink cutting into the center of the counter, a microwave oven was kept company by a potted plant, hardly larger than Steve's fist. He bent down to inspect it closer.

"Is this-" he scrutinized it carefully. "Is this a cactus?"

Clint rose from the table, laughing. "Yes, it is."

"It's tiny," Steve commented, intrigued.

"Doesn't mean he doesn't pack a mean punch," Clint asserted, leaning his elbows on the counter and gazing fondly at the plant. "Isn't that right, Bob?"

At Steve's uncomfortable shifting, Clint straightened and explained, "I always wanted a pet. I tried goldfish but it turns out that being away on missions for weeks at a time makes it hard to take care of animals. On the plus side, they made for a nice snack."

"Oh," Steve replied, unable to tell from the agent's straight face whether he was joking or not.

"Come on, the tour's not over yet," Clint suddenly changed topics, leading the way through a thin doorway, Steve following.

"Here's the bedroom and in there's the bathroom. Okay, now the tour's over," Clint concluded, setting his beer on a side table by the bed as he sat on the mattress and began unlacing his boots.

Steve hesitated in the door frame, not wishing to intrude. But Clint spared a moment to wave him forward, so Steve came in and stood in front of a wall of lockers that served the purpose of a closet. Purple lights, the kind that he had only seen on Christmas trees, were strung around the room, casting everything in an odd shade of violet, which was offset by the sunlight coming through the single window on the other side of the room. Beside the standard issue bed, the little table was cluttered with knick-knacks.

A framed photo of Clint and Natasha, his arm around her shoulder, was angled so it faced the bed. There was also an ornate hourglass, which reflected each light bulb and sent fractures of purple dancing across the room. With its sides little more than a jumble of colored stickers, a Rubik's Cube patiently waited for solution. Behind that, a stack of trading cards were fanned across the table's surface and Steve felt his stomach drop at the images printed on them. His own face smiled confidently as his hand snapped out a sharp salute. Steve swallowed hard. He recognized those cards. He knew who their previous owner had been. But if Clint held any resentment, he didn't show it. Quickly moving his eyes over, Steve frowned at the final object.

"Uh, Clint, what is that?"

Cramming his boots under the bed, Clint glanced over his shoulder at his collection. "The Rubik's Cube? It's a-"

"No, I know what that is. I meant that." Steve pointed to it.

"Oh, that's a lava lamp," Clint stated.

The eyebrow climbing his forehead displayed Steve's confusion.

Upon seeing his companion's facial expression, Clint found himself unable to pass up the opportunity to tease the captain. He reached over and quickly rotated the base so the 'made in China' sticker faced the wall. "Yeah. With real lava," he added. "From a volcano." He nodded sagely.

Once again, Steve was unsure if Clint was joking or not. The idea that lava could be kept in a glass tube was preposterous. And although he had never seen it before, he was pretty sure lava didn't look like that. But, then again, in this new century anything was possible. Not to mention, Clint seemed so sincere. What would he gain by lying about something like that? Yet, Steve still wasn't entirely convinced. But he was willing to drop the matter and move on to more important things. Such as the ceiling.

"Um..Clint? Why do you have a target painted over your bed?" Steve inquired politely, staring at the black lines.

Clint began snickering. "You know, you're the first person who's noticed that."

"If Fury knew about it, he'd bust you for sure," Steve observed.

"I'd like to see him try," Clint smirked, removing the knife from his belt and setting it in the drawer of the side table. "Hey, don't give me that look. You know I'm too valuable an asset for him to kill." He confidently laid down on his bed, lacing his hands behind his head.

"That doesn't mean he wouldn't drop you off the edge of the Helicarrier just to teach you a lesson," Steve pointed out.

Slowly, Clint sat up. "You might have a point. Do you know how to get spray paint off an aluminum-steel alloy?"

Steve shook his head, chuckling quietly.

"Come on, Cap. You can't let Fury do that to me," Clint begged theatrically, thrusting folded hands toward Steve. "I like heights. But I don't like falling from them!"

"I'll put in a good word but I can't make any promises," Steve compromised.

"Eh, that's close enough for me," Clint shrugged, flopping back on his bed.

Fond amusement lifted Steve's lips and his posture relaxed. Initially, he had reservations about accepting Clint's invitation. But so far, the archer had proved to be a reasonable host. Although, Steve knew it would take him a while to get used to Barton's sense of humor. It was difficult to distinguish sarcasm from honesty.

Crossing one knee over the other, Clint flapped a hand in Steve's general direction. "Go ahead and make yourself at home."

Happy to oblige, Steve was about to settle in for the next couple of days. Until he realized there was nowhere for him to settle. His brow furrowed as he scanned the meager contents of the agent's quarters. There were only a few pieces of furniture in Clint's possession and none of them had been built to support a sleeping super soldier.

"Um..Clint?"

"Yeah?" Clint glanced up at Steve.

"We may not have thought this all the way through," Steve suggested.

"Oh?" Clint sat up, curious. "Why's that?"

"Well, I don't mean to sound rude or anything but...where am I supposed to sleep?" Steve inquired.

For a moment, Clint did nothing more than blink. Steve blinked too. Suddenly, Clint burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

Between laughing and gasping for air, he finally managed to get out, "You're right. I didn't think this through at all."

Steve couldn't help himself. He had to join in with a few chuckles of his own. "I suppose I could sleep on the floor in there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the rest of the apartment.

That set Clint into a fresh fit of giggles tinged with embarrassment. "I invited Captain America over just to have him camp out in my kitchen. Boy, I am some friend, aren't I?"

"Yeah. Somehow this doesn't seem fair," Steve teased, grinning. "When you invaded my house, at least l let you have the couch."

"I have a bean bag chair you can use!" Clint brightened, pointing at the cabinets where said object rested in storage.

"Oh good. So I get a pillow. Anything else?" Steve ribbed.

Shaken by his laughter, Clint fell over onto his mattress. "Help yourself to the bath towels if you get cold!"

"I trust you treat all your guests this well," Steve smirked.

Finally wrestling his mirth into submission, Clint was able to smother his grin long enough to apologize. "I really am sorry, Cap. I guess I never thought about how tiny this place was. I'll talk to Fury and have him arrange a room for you."

"No, it's fine." Steve held up a hand. "I'd rather be here."

"You mean you'd rather live out of a duffel bag, while sleeping on a floor that hasn't been mopped since..." Clint paused. "While sleeping on a floor that hasn't ever been mopped instead of getting a whole room all to yourself?"

"I fought in World War II. I've slept on worse," Steve assured. "Besides, I think I'd prefer the company here." He shrugged happily.

A pleased smile curled Clint's lips. "All right, then. Welcome to the Hotel Barton."


End file.
